Monday, September 15, 2008

The Master

Part I

Her wrist stings as the rope bites into the soft pale flesh, the almost translucent delicacy of skin beneath which a blue tracery of veins throb stretched taut. Beneath the pale soft embrace of the blindfold, her eyes flutter as graduations of light and dark lick fear into the aching fragility of their green gaze. She feels a rippling along the stretched line of thigh and forces herself to relax, staving off the painful reality of cramping muscles.

She lies spread-eagled on the bed, the mattress firm beneath the pale flesh of her buttocks, her arms pulled up and out to the sides. An ache in her shoulders, tolerable but insistent keeps her focused. Intricate knots, delicate and complicated encircle the long bones of wrist and snake sinuously along the long line of arm, sweeping under the small breasts to encircle and imprison and then sweeping up and to the other side of the stretched reality of her supine figure.

Each long leg has been pulled to opposite corners of the mattress, the firm muscle of her thighs jumping slightly from the pressure, calves flexed, delicate ankles embraced by 2 inch scarlet leather cuffs, through which yet another rope has been woven and then tied off.

He stands back and studies his handiwork.

Her skin is so pale it is almost translucent. At the sweet, delicate pressure points of her figure; the wrists, the spot where the pulse throbs in the ankle, the achingly sweet valley where thigh meets groin and the smooth plump sex, a pale blue tracery of veins licks fragility into her strong frame. Her breasts are small, their firm handful of soft flesh prominent in the prison of ropes, the large plump nipples swollen, engorged, their normal colourless sweetness blushing pink and as he watches, crimson, the ivory of their soft flesh blushing deeper and deeper as circulation is carefully compromised.

Turning, he bends to his bag and picks through its bounty; pausing, he contemplates the soft falls of a suede flogger, then deciding against it, chooses the short-handled crop. Deceivingly innocuous, the crop looks benign in his capable hand.

He stands back to contemplate his canvas.

Her breasts quiver, the flesh shivering as her breath quickens, shallow and rapid. She is tense, on edge, anticipation lending anxiety to her restrained flesh. Delicately, barely touching, he runs the crop from ankle up the inside of the long leg to the inside of her thigh. Like a restless mare, her skin quivers beneath the touch, muscles jumping under the smooth flesh. She snorts, an explosion of air and the taut flesh of her belly jumps and her breasts shake.

Delicately, barely touching, he uses the tip of the crop to push between the tightly furled lips of her sex, gaping just slightly between the widely spread thighs, silver rings glistening in the muted light of the room. She moans then catches her breath and is silent. He watches intently, leaving the tip resting just below the shy nub of her clitoris, just tickling the first set of O rings and causing the flesh on her spread thighs to ripple.

Tightly restrained, her movements are limited. He watches as her flesh flushes, the long muscles in her arms flexing, the soft belly quivering as she tries to push against the tip of the crop.

Pulling back slightly, he trails the crop just slightly down the long pale slit, to the swollen pink creaminess of her cunt; there, leaning slightly to get the angle right, he pushes the leather tip just inside, sighing as the deep pink folds seem to swell and engulf the slick, soft leather.

"ahhh" he exhales as he carefully twists the crop, licking his lips which feel dry and relishing the wet, suckling sound of her swollen folds as the stiff leather pushes in and out, glistening now with the fragrant, silky wetness of her arousal.

His cock feels swollen and heavy, throbbing beneath the stuff of his blue jeans. Sweat gleams on his bare chest, glistening in the muted light of the candles which are massed in fragrant bunches at various stations in the room, scenting the warm air with a hint of vanilla.

Pulling on the crop slowly, he sighs as the hot swollen folds seem to cling and lick along its dark surface, as if seeking to swallow its stiff promise.

She makes a mewling sound of loss, then breathes deep and he watches as she struggles for decorum. Slowly, her breathing which had become rapid and shallow, began to deepen, the swollen, purpling breasts quivering as she fights for control and then finds that spot deep inside.

Leaning over, he closes his eyes and breathes in the scent that is uniquely her, clean, soft and with an underlying deliciousness of musk and woman scent that makes his prick twitch, swollen, drooling and dampening the gusset of the snug pants. Again, he pushes slowly, exquisitely the stiff leather of the crop up into her body, his breath warm against her belly.

Without warning, he straightens and in a graceful movement, pulls the crop from its warm prison. Moisture sparkles as with a practiced flick of his wrist, he cracks the crop on the taut thigh. She cries out, shocked and he watches as the flesh pinkens, then pales, a long white line of flesh already swelling. Then stepping back and taking a comfortable stance, he flicks the crop again and yet again, laying an intricate mandela of fire along her flesh, creating a pattern of ownership that will linger on the sensitive canvas of her body for several days.

He feels restless, unsatisfied. He pauses, his fingers run along the abused flesh of her thighs, pushing against the rapidly swelling welts and feeling his cock twitch, stiffen, damp and throbbing between his thighs as she whimpers. He wants more.

He looks at her and drinks in her helplessness and likes it. He wants to hurt her, hard. He wants to hear her whimper and scream and watch her body writhe as he pays homage to his need and want. He feels almost feverish as he contemplates his desire to rend flesh and stepping, lithe and silent, to the supine body, he leans over and nuzzles into the long line of her neck.

Delicately, he breathes along her throat, then like a great beast, he widens his mouth and baring his teeth, he leans into the valley of her throat and pulls the almost translucent flesh between his lips. He moans, vibrating into the pulsing of her very life force, feeling it between his teeth, knowing he could bite and feel the hot copper blood rush into his mouth, that he could, should he choose, take her very pulse of life into his own and drink it in until the spasming of her very essence jerks into silence.

She lies, pliant and accepting, docile under the threat of his want, open to his need and his desires and he reaches between his own legs and squeezes his prick which aches with a fierceness that is almost painful. Then releasing her throat he bends into her neck, down into the meat of her shoulder and bites, hard, her breath harsh in his ear as his teeth sink deep. She cries out, trying vainly to stifle herself as the pain slices through her self-imposed sacrifice and stings reality into her mind.

Before his teeth can cause too much damage, he steps back and grins wolfishly, loving the mark of his teeth in her shoulder.

He reaches without looking for where the knives lie, honed, shined to a bright dangerous gleam. As expected, she has laid them out precisely, aligned exactly as to size and height. His fingers unerringly close over the bone handle of the bowie knife, caressing the smooth, worn surface lovingly, as if the elegant twist of bone was a lover’s flesh.

Holding the knife consideringly, his eyes narrow but watchful, he contemplates his canvas.